The Gentlest Mellark
by graceinclouds
Summary: One-shot. The Mellark men, their silent camaraderie, and the gentleness that is as inherent in all of them as their blonde hair and blue-eyes. Rated T for implied violence. Written belatedly for Prompts in Panem.


The Gentlest Mellark

When Peeta was five, his mother had struck him on the cheek with a spatula so hard that one of his baby teeth had broken off, way before it's supposed to be shed; slicing the inside of his mouth, making it bleed.

It was the first time the youngest Mellark had felt such pain – both physical and otherwise, and as his father wiped the blood away from his mouth- his entire face- as gently as he could, the boy had cried endlessly. His older brothers could do nothing but watch, all the while avoiding his eyes, afraid that the wrath of their dearest mother would transfer to them as well. The cause of the commotion after all was simple: an upturned basket of plain buns, not even freshly baked, which Peeta had accidentally bumped of the shelf in his haste. Rye, the middle child, had only been hit once (their mother's hand on his cheek) so far, and it was because he nearly burned the bakery down when he skipped on oven duty and played with the Leven kids next door. Bannock, the oldest, had never been on the receiving end of their mother's anger.

"My dear boy," their father whispered, cradling the little blonde head in his chest. They had retreated to the boys' room upstairs, after a dinner that was hostile in its silence.

Mr. Mellark is known throughout District 12 as the gentle baker, always smiling, never discriminating. But he resented that now, after his own wife had physically hurt his dearest, youngest son, knowing that not even all of his _gentleness_ could erase that. The little one was now still, drained of tears, only the little hiccups punctuating his breathing. His face would be swollen by tomorrow, and the pain would be even worse. The only fortunate thing in this whole situation is that it was a Friday, and Peeta had the weekend to recover - physically, at least.

Peeta whimpered, and the baker adjusted him carefully, so that the boy's face would be visible by the lamp light.

"What can I do to make you feel better, son?" he whispered again, knowing that nothing he could offer would be enough.

There was silence. Not even the usual snoring of the two other Mellark boys could be heard, and the baker knew that no one in the room has fallen asleep yet. He sighed, caressing Peeta's hair once more, careful not to jostle the ice that was pressed into his son's right cheek.

"Can you sing, Daddy?"

The baker's brow furrowed. Peeta's voice was soft and sad - painful to his father's ears. "Well… okay. What do you want me to sing, Peeta?"

Peeta moved slowly, straightening himself with a whimper, until he was face to face with his father. His eyes were red and the dried up streams of his tears were still visible, along with the smudges of dirt from the day. An angry, dark red mark was evident on his pale cheek, evidence of the violence he had endured. The baker tried to adjust the ice pack over it. He told Peeta the ice had to cover the mark to make the swelling less. He didn't add that the sight of it was making him want to throw up.

"The Valley Song," Peeta whispered shyly, his eyes downcast. "Can you, Daddy?" he added a little while after, when his father didn't respond.

The baker cleared his throat, feeling his face flush. _'Don't be foolish,'_ he chastised himself, as the words of the song ran in his mind. He was not a good singer - well, not a singer, period. Isn't that why he lost the love of his life? She found a man who sang so beautifully that the birds would stop to listen…

He paused, the wheels in his head turning and clicking into place. The noticed then that the corner of his little boy's mouth had turned upward very slightly, and his cheek, the one that was not injured, was slightly pink. He had to keep himself from laughing, and instead, took a deep breath and started to sing.

Softly at first, almost wary, because he knew his wife had just turned in for bed. But a smile was breaking on his little Peeta's face, even as he winced at the pain on his cheek, and it urged the baker on. His hoarse and definitely off-key voice became louder, and he started to accentuate his singing (if you could even call it that) with theatrical facial expressions, his free arm extending and flying through the air in rhythm. He kept Peeta nestled in his other arm, rocking him, squeezing him, as the little boy started to giggle, exposing the new gap in his teeth. He noticed too that his other boys had also sat up in their beds, looking at him with wide grins (as for Bannock, with an additional roll of his eyes). He ended his performance with a wave of his hand and a little bow, his nose touching little Peeta's.

"That was awful," Bannock snorted in lieu of applause. The baker looked at his oldest, meeting his eyes, and for a moment the baker had felt like he was looking at the eyes of a man, and not a teenager. They shared a nod, and Bannock burrowed himself in his sheets, finally turning in for the night.

Rye had stood up from his bed and taken the two steps to reach Peeta's. He didn't look at his father but instead squeezed himself into his side, his thin arms embracing his waist. He was scared, the baker thought as he put his arm around the small shoulders; his second boy, dead scared of their mother, only he was past the age of admitting it. The boy disentangled himself from the baker and looked at his younger brother, his eyes full of apology for failing to protect. But Peeta smiled, an honest, open smile, and Rye smiled back before turning around and falling back in his bed.

It was just Peeta now who was awake, although his blue eyes were beginning to flutter.

"Sleep now, love," the baker said, setting the little boy on his pillow and kneeling beside his bed. "I hope my singing made you feel better."

"Thank you Dad…dy," Peeta said, ending with little yawn. "But my classmate… my… she sings it so much better…"

The baker chuckled. "Of course she does. It's the little Katniss Everdeen, isn't it?"

Peeta's eyes fluttered to a close, a sweet smile on his lips. "Katniss…" He turned slowly, his hand cradling the dripping, wet cloth which had previously carried ice. "Her voice, daddy… makes the birds… and… makes… me… happy…"

He shushed his little boy then, who had slowly and finally fallen asleep. He stood up, kissing the boy's forehead as lightly as he could. He stayed in the room as the lamp started to eat its oil, frozen and staring at Peeta for as long as the lamp light was alive, feeling his heart squeezing painfully in his chest. When it had turned too dim, and when he had made sure his littlest boy was asleep and _safe_, he turned and kissed both Bannock and Rye and finally left the room.


End file.
